


Sing, O Heavenly Host

by 22to22



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blasphemy, Gen, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/22to22/pseuds/22to22





	Sing, O Heavenly Host

Naomi’s ram’s head faces the sky and bleats unceasingly to her Father, who no doubt can hear her but never replies. She started as they all do, with praises, _glory glory glory, let God be exalted._ But when He left, the song faltered, _the Lord works in mysterious ways, His Will is infallible, blessing and glory and honor and power forever._ When Castiel moved against Raphael, her song became _Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition._

Now, with heaven in shambles, Raphael splattered across a dirty tile wall, and Castiel broken in too many ways to count, she sings nothing but long and increasingly creative strings of curses at her Father. He in His _Infinite Wisdom_ allowed the chain of command to be cropped all the way down to a technician in the Ministry of Mercy, depending on _her_ to rise to the occasion. She did. Heaven needed a firm hand to keep the angels from scattering to the winds. But Naomi isn’t what’s right for heaven. She understands that more vividly than anyone. 

She is just what was left.

_Dear holiest of shitbags, come take your job back before I fuck up (again?) and demolish what’s left of your heaven. Dear asshat, is this even the right direction? Was I even supposed to save Castiel? Was he worth the cost? Dear He-who-breeds-with-the-mouth-of-a-goat, fuck you for trusting me with the well-being of Paradise. Dear jackass, what am I supposed to do with the prayers of Your people? Don’t you hear them cry out to you? Don’t they concern you at all?_

Her anger doesn’t wound Him in the least. She knows that. If David, closest to God’s heart, could spend half of Psalms whining and begging and grasping at the hems of His robe without rousing His wrath, she doubts the enraged rantings of a minor principality like her will even register.

 _You’re an asshole,_ she bleats. _This job sucks. I miss you. Come home._


End file.
